Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
It's been a rough couple of weeks for aging hipsters. First there was
the news of Tower Records shutting
their doors. It's been tied-up in bankruptcy court for a long
time, and until the very end there was a small chance (hope) that at
least some of the stores would remain open. But the judge has ruled, and
it looks like it's the end of the line for the legendary retailer. Sad.
Everything down the last stick of incense is to be liquidated, and
scattered to the wind. Plus, 3000 haughty music snobs will be hanging up
their All Access laminates for the final time.
There were (are?) two Tower stores in Atlanta, and I spent considerable
time inside the Buckhead location. I feel kinda guilty about it, but I
almost never bought CDs there -- the prices were crazy-high. But they
had everything, and it was a great place for browsing. I did
spend a good amount of money in their bookstore next-door, however. They
had a kick-ass zine section, and the kind of books that I'd stock if I
owned a bookstore and didn't give a crap about making any actual, you
know, profits.
I also visited the original store on Sunset in Hollywood many times,
including a night that was almost a religious experience. Somehow
(details are foggy) I weaseled my way into a semi-private event with Randy
Newman. Randy is one of my all-time heroes; I'll fight the man, with
fists and feet, who claims he's not a genius. They locked the doors,
shoved the shelving out of the way, and Randy took to the piano and
played for an hour or so. We all sat in the floor around him, just a few
feet away, and I still get goose bumps thinking about it. He was
hilarious and friendly, and hung around for a long time afterwards
shooting the shit and signing posters. It's my favorite Tower memory of
them all.
Also, CBGB, the place where punk was born, is apparently
no more. The last show was Saturday night, after a more than
three-decade run. Too bad.
I never visited CBGB, but I drove past it once. Does that earn me any
coolness points? Yeah, I didn't think so... I got my hair cut on
Saturday, and the tattooed chick who was tending to my tiny Duke
head began ranting about the club's closing. I got the feeling that
she'd been stewing about it all day long, and I was the first person
she'd encountered who had any idea what she was talking about. So she
unloaded on me.
It was just a torrent of profanity and
anger, and I was hoping she wouldn't get herself so worked up she'd
accidentally sheer off one of my ears. She proclaimed CBGB
"hallowed ground," and was pissed that one of the old
"millionaire punks" hadn't stepped up and saved the place.
Like Johnny Rotten, she said. Something about that didn't seem quite
right, but there was no way I was going to argue with her; I was afraid
she might get out the straight razor.
Patti Smith played the last show, and I have a confession to make: I
never liked her much. I know that's almost heresy, but it happens to be
true. I always viewed her as pretentious and artsy-fartsy and about as
much fun as Joan Baez on a Sunday morning. I own a few Patti Smith CDs,
as required by law, but I don't really like any of them. The first one, Horses?
Excruciatingly awful. People that I respect sing the praises of that
record, but it makes me want to slam my face through plate glass. Sweet
sainted mother of Candy Slice.
There is one positive story on the hipster front: WOXY, a
legendary alternative rock radio station has risen from the dead. A few
years ago the owners of the Cincinnati-based outfit changed its format
and call letters, and it looked to be the death of WOXY. But a group of
passionate ex-employees got together and continued it as an
internet-only endeavor. They asked for donations, like NPR, and actually
made a go of it for a while. Finally the inevitable happened, however,
and six or eight weeks ago the owners announced that WOXY could not be
sustained, and would be shut down.
The channel stopped broadcasting, and then the website itself
disappeared. I'd only recently discovered it, and was saddened by the
turn of events. I'd never heard (or even heard of) 90% of the
music they played, but it was consistently good. I listened at work, and
would invariably jot down the names of bands that I wanted to
investigate further, after being exposed to them at WOXY.com. I hated to
see them go.
But the station has been saved once again! An internet millionaire, one
of those snot-nosed California brats who hit it big, has stepped up and
purchased WOXY. He's allowing them to continue as before: same format,
same personnel. And last week they were back on the "air." All
is right with the world. Hell, they're so flush with cash, they're not
even soliciting contributions anymore.
Pretty cool. If I were a snot-nosed California brat who hit it big, I'd
support the same kinds of things. I raise a chipped Gettysburg souvenir
coffee mug in the dude's honor. He's putting his millions to good use,
instead of flushing it down the toilet by making contributions to
useless bullshit, like the United Nations or whatever. Pass the beer
nuts.
-- And since I'm rambling on about music again, I want to share
something with you.
Back in my Atlanta record weasel days I shared an office with two guys
for a long, long time. Scott was a black man who loved extreme heavy
metal and deathcore and whatever that scary stuff was called. Our boss
was named Jim, and was into Jethro Tull and Neil Young, man. We had a
stereo in our office, and took turns playing CDs every day.
Scott would play compact discs that seemed to last for three or four
hours each. I'm not kidding. Sometimes I was convinced that Satan
himself were in our office, hanging out by the fax machine. But Scott
knew we didn't like that stuff very well, and adjusted his selections
accordingly. He was a good guy. Jim would play Joni Mitchell and Led
Zeppelin, and I'd usually go with whatever new discs I had lying around.
One day I played a CD by an Irish band called Ash. At the end of the
disc is a "hidden" track that starts playing ten minutes or so
after the last song finishes. We didn't know it was there. Scott was
just busy and didn't immediately jump to the CD player, so the disc kept
playing.
This track featured the band talking to each other, obviously drunk. The
sound of empty beer cans can be heard hitting the floor. Eventually one
of them starts pissing, then the puking kicks off. And there's more
puking, then more.
Jim thought this was high comedy, and played it again. Scott didn't see
the humor, and left the room. A few days later Jim put the CD on again,
just to hear the bonus track, and Scott got pissed. He was a
mild-mannered guy, but was bothered by all the puking and splashing, and
he and Jim went at it. Jim was Scott's boss, but Scott was not going to
compromise on the issue. He said he didn't need to hear vomiting at
work, and made veiled threats about going over Jim's head about it. It
got pretty heated.
I just stayed neutral on the subject of pre-recorded Irish upchucking,
and tried not to laugh. But I've got the bonus track for ya, right
here.
It's pretty nasty, so proceed with caution.
-- And that's gonna do it for today, children. I've got lots more, but
it'll have to wait. The question of the day occurred to me while
watching Law & Order over the weekend. You know how the
detectives always ask a person what they were doing last Wednesday night
between the hours of six and seven? And the person always has a ready
answer, without even thinking about it?
"Yes, I was having dinner with my wife and another couple at the Chateau
du Fudgepaque. I had the swordfish with a side of asparagus, and my wife
had a filet. I was wearing a blue shirt with khaki pants. Why do you
ask?"
That never seemed realistic to me. I can barely remember what I was
doing last night, much less some random day from last week. What
about you? Can you tell us what you were doing last Wednesday between
the hours of six and seven? Do you have an alibi? We need to know, it's
a routine part of the investigation. Use the comments link below to
clear yourself.
--
It's been a rough couple of weeks for aging hipsters. First there was
the news of Tower Records 